


Mad Libs

by orchidbreezefc



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 13:16:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchidbreezefc/pseuds/orchidbreezefc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Today is the day you, Jake English, asked Dirk Strider to go steady. Today is the day you had accepted a ride to his apartment after school, and today is the day he had his tongue in your mouth and his hand on your hindquarters before you even got through the door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mad Libs

**Author's Note:**

> [on tumblr](http://orchidbreezefc.tumblr.com/post/33139261126)

Today is the day you, Jake English, asked Dirk Strider to go steady. Today is the day you had accepted a ride to his apartment after school, and today is the day he had his tongue in your mouth and his hand on your hindquarters before you even got through the door.

Strider fumbles to get the key into the lock behind his back, with the one hand that isn’t otherwise occupied. He has the approximate dexterity of a fucking octopus, though, and soon he has it open. Without taking his mouth off yours, he bodily drags you in, kicks the door shut, and presses you against it. You only get a moment to get your breath back when he strips off your shirt, and haphazardly snatches your glasses and puts them on the table by the door. He appears to have forgotten about his own shades, which are hooked on his shirt’s collar, but you don’t have time to remind him because he’s on you again.

It’s not like this has never happened between you two. It’s not like fisticuffs have never turned into him biting and licking and holding you down and—but now, it’s not just a brawl getting carried away. Now you know that giving you a boner is the plan expressly, and holy shit he’s raking his nails down your back and has that always been this bawdy because it goes _straight_ to your chocolate mayo rocket. Did you just never notice how licentious this all was with all that platonic brofriend wool over your spectacles?

Surely you wouldn’t have missed something like this, with the way his movements are laser focused with fervor. In every touch of his hand and every swipe of his tongue you feel all the things he must have, all this time, wanted to do to you. All the things nothing is stopping him from doing now. Dirk’s absolutely ardent with lust, all for you. It makes you positively dizzy.

He’s still biting quite fiercely at your neck, like a vampire or a badly-trained chihuahua, and good lord now that _is_ distracting. He does this all the time, but right now the application of those pearly whites is making it difficult to concentrate and, you fear, may be contributing to the growing fabric strain by your nether bits. His voice is uneven for a Strider—which is to say quite unfairly steady indeed—when he says, with none of his usual flair for metaphor (metaflair), “Bed.”

“Bed?” you repeat dumbly, eyeballing his chambers. Better his than yours, at any rate; you figure Strider’s more the chap to be prepared for this sort of event.

“I could tear your clothes off and have you right here,” he proposes in a thrice-damned deadpan. You honestly believe he could, what with the way he’s practically rutting against your thigh. “But traditional guy like you, I’d figure you’d prefer the more conventional venue.”

You’re starting to lose track of him a bit because he’s got this tongue and these teeth, and he’s not using either of them on you when he’s electing to make words instead. You hustle to the room in question, just to make him stop, but he doesn’t shimmy off his trousers and get right to it like you had expected.

You do get his shirt off, along with the shades—Dirk looks like he’s about to complain at the mistreatment of his cool glasses when you fling them to the floor, but he thinks better of it. He stretches you out on the bed, belly-up, and you raise your hips for him to pull off your trousers. He whistles appreciatively at your girth. You get the distinct notion that at some point he is going to make the most of it.

He could finish you in a flash if he wanted, like a miniboss with as many hit points as a chicken has teeth, but he seems to have no such contrivances. He works you slowly, pays intense attention to one locale or another, your thighs or your shoulders or that little gap thing at the top of your sternum, whatever that’s called. You squirm with impatience, but he only looks up from taste-testing random body parts and offers a pat on the navel, and goes back to taking his sweet fucking time with you. He’s yet to give any acknowledgement to your loaded sex pistol, desperate as it is for his administrations, and that’s not only inconsiderate but also just fucking unlike him.

You’ve started pleading in an undignified whine when he finally finishes applying his tongue to the underside of your wrist, and deigns to pull down his own britches. You skip a breath or two, only now realising that he’s as stupidly stiff as you are, which only makes his delay more egregious. He takes both your wrists in hand and pins them down to the mattress, and his bacon torpedo presses flush with yours. His hips continue to accost yours, bearing down even farther farther _farther_ meeting your own pelvic region and you’re going to “lose it Dirk do something now Dirk please touch me fuck me you’ve goddamn got to I’m going to—”

You expect him to roll his eyes, but he just smirks at your babble. “Come,” he intones, as an order. His orange eyes are dark but they burn fierce into you anyway.

You acquiesce.

He just watches, just observes your erotic explosion. He strokes your face and runs his hand down your chest and touches his fingers to the manjuice on his stomach. He looks into your eyes, his still half-lidded, and he licks his fingers clean just like he did last time, but looking at you, holy _shit_ fuck. He moves his knees forward for some stability and, with a few economic movements, he joins your post-coital status.

Strider leans back down and affords you a long, slow kiss for your trouble. “Next time,” he murmurs into your mouth, “I’m going to beat the shit out of you.”

You think you like the sound of that.

**Author's Note:**

> euphemisms


End file.
